AviUvWm L'\Meo\K\ 



J: c em. 



Su/j^^oo'i er /^6S'' 




AUaniiei/fontU^. 



1 855.1 AbraJuwi Lincoln. 491 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

Summer, 1865. 

DEAD is the roll of the drums, 
And the distant thunders die, 
They fade in the far-off sky; 
And a lovely summer comes, 
Like the smile of Him on high. 

Lulled the storm and the onset. 
• Earth lies in a sunny swoon; 

Stiller splendor of noon. 
Softer glory of sunset, 

JMilder starlight and moon ! 

For the kindly Seasons love us ; 

They smile over trench and clod, 
(Where we left the bravest of us,) — 

There 's a brighter green of the sod, 
And a holier calm above us 

In the blessdd Blue of God. 

The roar and ravage were vain ; 

And Nature, that never yields. 
Is busy with sun and rain 
At her old sweet work again 

On the lonely battle-fields. 

How the tall white daisies grow 

Where the grim artillery rolled ! 
(Was it only a moon ago? 

It seems a century old,) — 

And the bee hums in the clover. 

As the pleasant June comes on ; 
Aye, the wars are all over, — 

But our good Father is gone. 

There was tumbling of traitor fort. 

Flaming of traitor fleet, — 
Lighting of city and port. 

Clasping in square and street. 

There was thunder of mine and gun. 

Cheering by mast and tent, — 
When — his dread work all done, 
And his high fame full won — 

Died the Good President. 

In his quiet chair he sate, 

Pure Oi malice or guile, 
Stainless of fear or hate, — 

And there played a pleasant smile 



E 



.9 



Ag2 Abraham Lincoln. [October, 

On the rough and careworn face ; 
For his heart was all the while 
On means of mercy and grace. 

The brave old Flag drooped o'er him, 
(A fold in the hard hand lay,) — 
He looked, perchance, on the play, — 

But the scene was a shadow before him, 
For his thoughts were far away. 

'T was but the morn, (yon fearful 

Death-shade, gloomy and vast. 

Lifting slowly at last,) 

His household heard him saj^, 
" 'T is long since I 've been so cheerful. 

So light of heart as to-day." 

'T was dj-ing, the long dread clang, — 

But, or ever the blessed ray 

Of peace could brighten to-day. 

Murder stood by the way, — 
Treason struck home his fang ! 
One throb — and, without a pang. 

That pure soul passed away. 

Idle, in this our blindness. 

To marvel we cannot see 

Wherefore such things should be, 
Or to question Infinite Kindness 

Of this or of that Decree, 

Or to fear lest Nature bungle, 

That in certain ways she errs : 
The cobra in the jungle. 

The crotalus in the sod. 
Evil and good are hers ; — 
Murderers and torturers ! 
Ye, too, were made by God. 

All slowly heaven is nighing, 

Needs that offence must come ; 
Ever the Old Wrong dying 
Will sting, in the death-coil lying, 

And hiss till its fork be dumb. 

But dare deny no further, 

Black-hearted, brazen-cheeked ! 
Ye on whose lips yon murther 

These fifty moons hath reeked, — 

From the wTetched scenic dunce, 

Long a-hungered to rouse 
A Nation's heart for the nonce, — 
(Hugging his hell, so that once 

He might yet bring down the liouse!) — 



"■4 



'"^f 1865.] Abraham Lincoln. 493 



From the commons, gross and simple, 
Of a blind and bloody land, 

( Long fed on venomous lies ! ) — 
To the horrid heart and hand 
That sumless murder dyes, — 
The hand that drew the wimple 
Over those cruel eyes. 

Pass on, — your deeds are done, 
Forever sets your sun ; 

V^ainly ye lived or died, 
'Gainst Freedom and the Laws, — 
And your memory and your cause 

Shall haunt o'er the trophied tide 

Like some Pirate Caravel floating 

Dreadful, adrift — whose crew 
From her yard-arms dangle rotting, — 

The old Horror of the blue. 

Avoid ye, — let the morrow 

Sentence or mercy see. 
Pass to your place : our sorrow 
Is all too dark to borrow 

One shade from such as ye. 

But if one, with merciful eyes. 
From the forgiving skies 

Looks, 'mid our gloom, to see 
Yonder where Murder lies. 
Stripped of the woman guise. 

And waiting the doom, — \ is he. 

Kindly Spirit ! — Ah, when did treason 
Bid such a generous nature cease, 

Mild by temper and strong by reason, 
But ever leaning to love and peace ? 

A head how sober ! a heart how spacious ! 

A manner equal with high or low ; 
Rough, but gentle ; uncouth, but gracious ; 

And still inclining to lips of woe. 

Patient when saddest, calm when sternest, 
Grieved when rigid for justice' sake ; 

Given to jest, yet ever in earnest. 

If aught of right or truth were at stake. 

Simple of heart, yet shrewd therewith ; 

Slow to resolve, but firm to hold ; 
Still with parable and with myth 

Seasoning truth, like Them of old ; 
Aptest humor and quaintest pith ! 

(Still we smile o'er the tales he told.) 



AQA Abraham Lincoln. [October, 

And if, sometimes, in saddest stress, 

That mind, over-meshed by fate, 

(Ringed round with treason and hate, 
And guiding the State by guess,) 

Could doubt and could hesitate, — 
Who, alas ! had done less 

In the world's most deadly strait ? 

But how true to the Common Cause ! 

Of his task how unweary ! 
How hard he worked, how good he was, 

How kindly and cheery ! 

How, while it marked redouble 

The howls and hisses and sneers, 
That great heart bore our trouble 

Through all these terrible years, — 

And, cooling passion with state. 

And ever counting the cost. 
Kept the Twin World- Robbers in wait 

Till the time for their clutch was lost ! 

How much he cared for the State, 

How little for praise or pelf! 
A man too simply great 

To scheme for his proper self. 

But in mirth that strong heart rested 

From its strife with the false and violent, — 

A jester ! — So Henry jested. 
So jested William the Silent. 

Orange, shocking the dull 

With careless conceit and quip, 
Yet holding the dumb heart full 

With Holland's life on his lip ! * 

Navarre, bonhomme and pleasant. 

Pitying the poor man's lot. 
Wishing that every peasant 

A chicken had in his pot ; 

Feeding the stubborn bourgeois, 

Though Paris sdll held out; 
Holding the League in awe. 

But jolly with all about. 

* " His temperament was cheerful. At table, the pleasures of which in moderation were his only relax- 
ation, he was always animated and merry; and this jocoseness was partly natural, partly mtentional. In 
the darkest hours of his country's trial, he affected a serenity he was far from feeling ; so that his apparent 
gayety at momentous epochs was even censured by dullards, who could not comprehend its philosophy, nor 
applaud the flippancy of William the Silent. He went through life bearing the load of a people's sorrows 
with a smiling face." — Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic. 

Perhaps a lively national sense of humor is one of the surest exponents of advanced civilization. Cer- 
tainly a grim sullenness and fierceness have been the leading traits of the Rebellion for Slavery ; while Free- 
dom, like a Brave at the stake, has gone through her long agony with a smile and a jest ever on her lips. 



J 865.] Abraham Lincoln. 495 

Out of an o'erflowed fulness 

Those deep hearts seemed too light,— 

(And so 't was, murder's dulness 
Was set with suUener spite.) 

Yet whoso might pierce the guise 

Of mirth in the man we mourn 
Would mark, and with grieved surprise. 

All the great soul had borne. 
In the piteous hncs, and the kind, sad eyes 

So dreadfully wearied and worn. 

And we trusted (the last dread page 
Once turned of our Doomsday Scroll) 
To have seen him, sunny of soul. 

In a cheery, grand old age. 

But, Father, 't is well with thee ! 

And since ever, when God draws nigh, 
Some grief for the good must be, 

'1 was well, even so to die, — 

'Mid the thunder of Treason's fall, 

The yielding of haughty town. 
The crashing of cruel wall, 

The trembling of tyrant crown ! 

The ringing of hearth and pavement 

To the clash of falling chains, — 
The centuries of enslavement 

Dead, with their blood-bought gains ! 

And through trouble weary and long 

Well hadst thou seen the way, 
Leaving the State so strong 

It did not reel for a day ; 

And even in death couldst give 

A token for Freedom's strife, — 
A proof how republics live. 

And not by a single life^ 

But the Right Divine of man. 

And the many, trained to be free, — 

And none, since the world began. 
Ever was mourned like thee. 

Dost thou feel it, O noble Heart! 

(So grieved and so wronged below,) 
From the rest wherein thou art? 
Do they see it, those patient eyes ? 
Is there heed in the happy skies 

For tokens of world-wide woe ? 



496 Abraham Lincoln. [October, 

The Land's great lamentations, 
The mighty mourning of cannon, 
The myriad flags half-mast, — 
The late remorse of the nations, 
Grief from Volga to Shannon ! 
(Now they know thee at last.) 

How, from gray Niagara's shore 

To Canaveral's surfy shoal, — 
From the rough Atlantic roar 

To the long Pacific roll, — 

For bereavement and for dole, 
Every cottage wears its weed. 

White as thine own pure soul. 
And black as the traitor deed ! 

How, under a nation's pall. 
The dust so dear in our sight 

To its home on the prairie passed, — 
The leagues of funeral. 

The myriads, morn and night, 
Pressing to look their last ! 

Nor alone the State's Eclipse ; 

But how tears in hard eyes gather, — 
And on rough and bearded lips. 
Of the regiments and the ships, — 

" Oh, our dear Father ! " 

And methinks of all the million 

That looked on the dark dead face, 
'Neath its sable-plumed pavilion. 

The crone of a humbler race 
Is saddest of all to think on, 

And the old swart lips that said, 
Sobbing, "Abraham Lincoln! 

Oh, he is dead, he is dead ! " 

Hush ! let our heavy souls 

To-day be glad ; for agen 
The stormy music swells and rolls 

Stirring the hearts of men. 

And under the Nation's Dome, 

They 've guarded so well and long, 
Our boys come marching home, 

Two hundred thousand strong. 

All in the pleasant month of I\Iay, 

With war-worn colors and drums, 
Still, through the livelong summer's day. 

Regiment, regiment comes. 



1S65.] Abraham Lincoln. 4q^ 

Like tlie tide, ycsty and barmy, 

Tiiat sets on a wild lee-shore, 
Surge the ranks of an army 

Never reviewed before ! 

Who shall look on the like agen, 
Or see such host of the brave ? 
A mighty River of marching men 
Rolls the Capital through, — 
Rank on rank, and wave on wave, 
Of bayonet-crested blue ! 

How the chargers neigh and champ, 
(Their riders weary of camp,) 

With curvet and with caracole ! — 
The cavalry comes with thundrous tramp, 

And the cannons heavily roll. 

And ever, flowery and gay. 
The Staff sweeps on in a spray 

Of tossing forelocks and manes ; 
But each bridle-arm has a weed 
Of funeral, black as the steed 

That fiery Sheridan reins. 

Grandest of mortal sights 

The sun-browned ranks to view, — ■ 
The Colors ragg'd in a hundred fights, 

And the dusty Frocks of Blue ! 

And all day, mile on mile. 

With cheer, and waving, and smile, 

The war-worn legions defile 

Where the nation's noblest stand ; 
And the Great Lieutenant looks on. 

With the Flower of a rescued Land, — 
For the terrible work is done. 
And the Good Fight is won 

For God and for Fatherland. 

So. from the fields thcv win. 

Our men are marching home, 

A million are marching home ! 
To tlie cannon's thundering din, 

y\.nd banners on mast and dome, — 
And the ships come sailing in 

With all their ensigns dight. 

As erst for a great sea-fight. 

Let every color fly. 

Every pennon flaunt in pride ; 
Wave, Starry Flag, on high ! 
VOL. XVI. — xo. 96. 32 



4q8 Abraham Lijicoln. [October, 

Float in the sunny sky, 

Stream o'er the stormy tide ! 
For every stripe of stainless hue, 
And every star in the field of blue, 
Ten thousand of the brave and true 

Have laid them down and died. 

And in all our pride to-day 

We think, with a tender pain, 
Of those so far away, 

They will not come home again. 

And our boys had fondly thought, 

To-day, in marching by, 
From the ground so dearly bought, 
And the fields so bravely fought, 

To have met their Father's eye. 

But they may not see him in place, 

Nor their ranks be seen of him ; 
We look for the well-known face. 

And the splendor is strangely dim. 

Perished? — who was it said 

Our Leader had passed away? 
Dead? Our President dead? — 

He has not died for a day ! 

We mourn for a little breath, 

Such as, late or soon, dust yields ; 
But the Dark Flower of Death 

Blooms in the fadeless fields. 

We looked on a cold, still brow : 

But Lincoln could yet survive ; 

He never was more alive, 
Never nearer than now. 

For the pleasant season found him, 

Guarded by faithful hands, 

In the fairest of Summer Lands : 
With his own brave Staif around him, 

There our President stands. 

There they are all at his side. 

The noble hearts and true, 

That did all men might do, — 
Then slept, with their swords, and died. 

Of little the storm has reft us 

But the brave and kindly clay 
('T is but dust where Lander left us, 

And but turf where Lyon lay). 



1865.] AbraJiani Lincoln. ^oq 

There "s Wintlirop, true to the end, 

And Ellsworth of long ago, 

( First fair young head laid low ! ) 
There 's Baker, the brave old friend, 

And Douglas, the friendly foe : 

(Baker, that still stood up 

When 'twas death on either hand: 
" 'T is a soldier's part to stoop, 

But the Senator must stand.") 

The heroes gather and form : — 

There 's Cameron, with 'his scars, 
Sedgwick, of siege and storm. 

And Mitchell, that joined his stars. 

Winthrop, of sword and ])en, 

Wadsworth, with silver hair, 
Mansfield, ruler of men. 

And brave INIcPhcrson arc there. 

Birney, who led so long, 

Abbott, born to command, 
Elliott the bold, and Strong, 

Who fell on the hard-fought strand. 

Ljlle, soldier and bard. 

And the Ellets, sire and son. 
Ransom, all grandly scarred, 
And Redfield, no more on guard, 

( But Alatoona is won ! ) 

Reno, of pure desert, 

Kearney, with heart of flame. 
And Russell, that hid his hurt 

Till the final death-bolt came. 

Terrill, dead where he fought, 

Wallace, that would not yield, 
And Sumner, who vainly sought 

A grave on the foughten field 

(But died ere the end he saw, 

With years and battles outworn). 
There 's Harmon of Kenesaw, 
And Ulric Dahlgren, and Shaw, 

That slept with his Hope Forlorn. 

Bayard, that knew not fear, 

( True as the knight of yore,) 
And Putnam, and Paul Revere, 

Worthy the names they bore. 



roo Abraham Lincoln. [October, 

Allen, who died for others, 

Bryan, of gentle fame, 
And the brave New-England brothers 

That have left us Lowell's name. 

Home, at last, from the wars, — 

Stedman, the staunch and mild, 

And Janeway, our hero-child, 
Home, with his fifteen scars ! 

There 's Porter, ever in front. 

True son of a sea-king sire. 
And Christian Foote, and Dupont 
( Dupont, who led his ships 
Rounding the first Ellipse 

Of thunder and of fire). 

There 's Ward, with his brave death-wounds, 

And Cummings, of spotless name. 
And Smith, who hurtled his rounds 

When deck and hatch were aflame ; 

Wainwright, steadfast and true, 

Rodgers, of brave sea-blood. 
And Craven, with ship and crew 

Sunk in the salt sea flood. 

And, a little later to part. 

Our Captain, noble and dear — 

( Did they deem thee, then, austere ? 
Drayton ! — O pure and kindly heart ! 

Thine is the seaman's tear.) 

All such, — and many another, 

(Ah, list how long to name ! ) 
That stood like brother by brother, 

And died on the field of fame. 

And around — (for there can cease 

This earthly trouble) — they throng, 
The friends that had passed in peace, 

The foes that have seen their wrong. 

(But, a little from the rest, 

With sad eyes looking down. 

And brows of softened frown, 
With stern arms on the chest. 
Are two, standing abreast, — 

Stonewall and Old John Brown.) 

But the stainless and the true, 

These by their President stand. 
To look on his last review, 

Or march with the old command. 



1865.] AbraJia})i Lincoln. 501 

And lo, from a thousand fields, 

From all the old battle-haunts, 
A greater Army than Sherman wields, 

A grander Review than Grant's ! 

Gathered home from the grave, 

Risen from sun and rain, — 
Rescued from wind and wave, 

Out of the stormy main, — 
The Legions of our Brave 

Are all in tiieir lines again ! 

Many a stout Corps that went, 
Full-ranked, from camp and tent, 

And brought back a brigade ; 
Many a brave regiment. 

That mustered only a squad. 

The lost battalions, 

That, when the fight went wrong, 
Stood and died at their guns, — 

The stormers steady and strong. 

With their best blood that bought 

Scarp, and ravelin, and wall, — 
The companies that fought 

Till a corporal's guard was all. 

IVIany a valiant crew, 

That passed in battle and wreck, — 
Ah, so faithful and true ! 

They died on the bloody deck. 
They sank in the soundless blue. 

All the loyal and bold 

That lay on a soldier's bier, — 

The stretchers borne to the rear, 
The hammocks lowered to the hold. 

The shattered wreck we hurried, 

In death-fight, from deck and port. — 

The Blacks that Wagner buried. 
That died in the Bloody Fort ! 

Comrades of camji and mess, 

Left, as they lay, to die. 
In the battle's sorest stress. 

When the storm of fight swept by: 
They lay in the Wilderness, — 

Ah, where did they not lie ? 

In the tangled swamp they lay. 
They lay so still on the sward ! — 



^02 Abmha7n Lincoln. [October, 

They rolled in the sick-bay, 
Moaning their lives away ; — 
They flushed in the fevered ward. 

They rotted in Libby yonder, 

They starved in the foul stockade, — 

Hearing afar the thunder 
Of the Union cannonade ! 

But the old wounds all are healed, 
And the dungeoned limbs are free, — 

The Blue Frocks rise from the field. 
The Blue Jackets out of the sea. 

They 've 'scaped from the torture-den, 

They 've broken the bloody sod, 
They 're all come to life agen ! — 
The Third of a Million men 

That died for Thee and for God ! 

A tenderer green than May 

The Eternal Season wears, — 
The blue of our summer's day. 

Is dim and pallid to theirs, — 
The Horror faded away, 

And 't was heaven all unawares ! 

Tents on the Infinite Shore ! 

Flags in the azuline sky, 
Sails on the seas once more ! 

To-day, in the heaven on high, 
All under arms once more ! 

The troops are all in their lines. 

The guidons flutter and play ; 
But every bayonet shines, 

For all must march to-day. 

What lofty pennons flaunt ? 
What mighty echoes haunt, 

As of great guns, o'er the main ? 

Hark to the sound again ! 
The Congress is all-ataunt ! 

The Cumberland 's manned again ! 

All the ships and their men 

Are in line of battle to-day, — 
All at quarters, as when 

Their last roll thundered away, — 
All at their guns, as then. 

For the Fleet salutes to-day. 



1865.] Abraham Lincoln. cq' 

The armies have broken camp 

On the vast and sunny plain, 

The drums are rolHng again ; 
With steady, measured tramp, 

They 're marching all again. 

With alignment firm and solemn, 

Once again they form 
In mighty square and column, — 

But never for charge and storm. 

The Old Flag they died under 

Floats above them on the shore. 
And on the great ships yonder 

The ensigns dip once more, — 
And once again the thunder 

Of the thirty guns and four! 

In solid platoons of steel, 

Under heaven's triumphal arch, 
The long lines break and wheel ; 

And the word is, " Forward, march ! " 

The colors ripple o'erhead. 

The drums roll up to the sky, 
And with martial time and tread 

The regiments all pass by, — 
The ranks of our faithful Dead, 

Meeting their President's eye. 

With a soldier's quiet pride 

They smile o'er the perished pain, 

For their anguish was not vain, — 
For thee, O Father, we died ! 

And we did not die in vain. 

March on, your last brave mile ! 

Salute him. Star and Lace, 
Form round him, rank and file. 

And look on the kind, rough face ; 
But the quaint and homely smile 

Has a glory and a grace 
It never had known erewhile, — 

Never, in time and space. 

Close round him, hearts of pride ! 
Press near him, side by side, — 

Our P\ather is not alone ! 
For the Holy Right ye died. 
And Christ, the Crucified, 

Waits to welcome his own. 



504 



Reviews and Literary N^ptices. 



[October, 



REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES, 



Letters to Various Persons. By Henry D. 
Thoreau. Boston : Ticknor & Fields. 

The prose of Thoreau is daily winning 
recognition as possessing some of the very 
highest qualities of thought and utterance, 
in a degree scarcely rivalled in contemporaiy 
literature. In spite of whim and frequent 
over-refining, and the entire omission of ma- 
ny important aspects of human life, these 
wondrous merits exercise their charm, and 
we value everything which lets us into the 
workshop of so I'are a m'ind. These let- 
ters, most of which were addressed to a sin- 
gle confidential friend, give us Thoreau's 
thoughts in undress, and there has been no 
previous book in which we came so near 
him. It is like engraving the studies of an 
artist, — studies many of which were found 
too daring or difficult for final execution, 
and which must be shown in their original 
shape or not at all. To any one who was 
more artist than thinker this exhibition 
would be doing wrong ; but to one like 
Thoreau, more thinker than artist, it is an 
act of justice. 

The public, being always eager for the 
details of personal life, and therefore espe- 
cially hungry for private letters, will hardly 
make this distinction. All is held to be right 
which gives us more personality in print. 
One can fancy the exasperation of a gos- 
sip, however, on opening these profound and 
philosophic leaves. There is almost no pri- 
vate history in them ; and even of Thoreau's 
beloved science of Natural History, veiy 
little. He does, indeed, begin one letter 
with "Dear Mother, .... Pray have you 
the seventeen - year locust in Concord ? " 
which recalls Mendelssohn's birthday letter 
to his mother, opening with two bars of 
music. But even such mundane matters as 
these occur rarely in the book, which is 
chiefly made up of pure thought, and that 
of the highest and often of the most subtile 
quality. 

Thoreau had, in literature as in life, a 
code of his own, which, if sometimes lax 
where others were stringent, was always 
stringent in higher matters, where others 
were lax. Even the friendship of Emerson 
could not coerce him into that careful elabo- 
ration which gives dignity and sometimes a 
certain artistic monotony to the works of our 



great essayist. Emerson never wilfully leaves 
a point unguarded, never allows himself to 
be caught in undress. Thoreau spurns this 
punctiliousness, and thus impairs his average 
execution ; while for the same reason he at- 
tains, in favored moments, a diction more 
flowing and a more lyric strain than his 
teacher ever allows himself, at least in prose. 
He also secures, through this daring, the oc- 
casional expression of more delicate as well 
as more fantastic thoughts. And there is an 
interesting passage in these letters where he 
rather unexpectedly recognizes the dignity of 
literary art as art, and states very finely its 
range of power. "To look at literature, — 
how many fine thoughts has every man had ! 
how few fine thoughts are expressed ! Yet 
we never have a fantasy so subtile and ethe- 
real, but that talent merely, with more reso- 
lution and faithful persistency, after a thou- 
sand failures, might fix and engrave it in 
distinct and enduring words, and we should 
see that our dreams are the solidest facts 
that we know." The Italics are his own, 
and the glimpse at his literary method is 
very valuable. 

One sees also, in these letters, how innate 
in him was that grand simplicity of spiritual 
attitude, compared with which most confes- 
sions of faith seem to show something hack- 
neyed and second-hand. It seems the first 
resumption ■ — unless here again we must link 
his name with Emerson's — of that great 
strain of thought of which Epictetus the 
slave and Marcus Aurelius Antoninus the 
sovereign were the last previous examples. 
Amid the general Miserere, here is one hymn 
of lofty cheer. There is neither weak con- 
ceit nor weak contrition, but gratitude for 
existence, and a sublime aim. "My actual 
life," he says, " is a fact in view of which I 
have no occasion to congratulate myself; 
but for my faith and aspiration I have re- 
spect. It is from these that I speak. Ev- 
ery man's position is, in frict, too simple to 

be described I am simply what I 

am, or I begin to be that I know 

that I am. I know that another is who knows 
more than I, who takes interest in me, whose 
creature, and yet whose kindred, in one 
sense, am I. I know that the enterprise is 
worthy. I know that things work well. I 
have heard no bad news." (p. 45.) 

" Happy the man," he elsewhere nobly 



\ 



iW- 



